Getting rejected every day, from coast to coast

Tag: poems

It was all about
to end
as the sun
faded
to black
and the crack
inside the
galaxy
shattered
into eternity
and the moon
decided
to leave
and she swiftly took
the seas
to spite
our disappearing light
into the desert
we were led
and all our hope
was surely dead
but as the winds
were screaming
as the blue sky
turned to
red
the last lonesome
thought
to ever
enter my
weary head
was the memory
of you-

dipped in sunlight

stretched across

my king

size

bed

And long after
we all are dead
and into the end
we are led
I hope the Earth
remembers this:

that once

two people

were

happy

here.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 1.27.17

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Lower East Side at midnight
his place
filled with lingering
wafts of 3 pm spliffs
and empty bottles
of cheap scotch,
I can never remember
the brand.
It made him feel like
James Bond
or Hemingway
when he drank it.
I didn’t want to
make him feel bad.
Bodega roses
of red and yellow
just for me,
in an old vase
on the kitchen table,
a patched crack
runs down the middle
of the glass.
I run my finger along it,
waiting for it
to pierce my skin,
but it never does.
He never takes his time
before his hands are
running up my legs
and under my skirt,
feeling his way inside,
before he lifts me
and sets me
on the table,
along side the flowers.
My eyes make contact
with their vibrant petals
as my pants
are pushed
to the side.
We have sex because
it’s what people
like us do.
My eyes close
and my mind wanders
to the painting of Ophelia
I saw at the
Tate Britain
a lifetime ago,
and the man who
wept
for her absence.
The bodega roses
come back into focus,
instead of his face.
We don’t make
eye contact
when he fucks me
anymore.
They are facing him,
even though I’m facing
them.
Because the truth is,
only one of us blooms for him.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 3.26.17

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It was never ok,
Never quite settled
Or content,
Always a sense of
Rattled hearts
And splintered fingertips,
Reaching for the moonlight
As it spilt across your back
On October nights when
The windows were open
And the air was cool
As ice in tall glasses
On Saturdays in July,
But you never stirred,
Unable to feel the silver slivers
Of light
Piercing your skin,
But I saw it
And it shook me,
Until the breath left my lungs
And my lips met your spine,
Tucked beneath the warmth of your skin,
Radiating like sunlight in summer
The whole year round.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 7.14.17

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Heavy eyes
Failing to look towards
The light,
Even when it’s dark as midnight,
As if searching for the emptiness
They wish to escape.
Sinking, hollow pit
Pulling down the guts,
Anchoring them to the immovable
Feast of a desperate life,
Malignant melancholy
That freezes the heart
Between beats,
And rips the hair at the root
Before eating away
At the skin,
Hopeless living
Hopeless loss
Hopeless love,
Sinking into the dewy blades
Of overgrown summer grass
And scorched wildflowers,
Canary as the birds I used to hear
Singing,
When the sun would rise
And the soul could still eat
At the banquet of immortal life.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 7.14.17

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It was all too much,
each day the heavy weight
of continuing on waited
to crush her,
knowing her arms were too weak to
lift the load above
her head once
it fell.
She couldn’t hold it off
any
longer.
It had hung there for
far too long,
taunting her,
teasing it’s imminent
collapse.

Her body shook,
the power of 1906
San Francisco
quaking her
from the inside out,
until she lay
paralyzed,
frozen by the power of it’s
force.
The weight dangled
above her eyes,
shaken loose by
her mind
and soul,
if that even
dwelled inside
of her,
she didn’t know.
Not anymore.

She resigned,
and closed her eyes,
and held her arms
out to the sides,
her hands facing the sky,
begging for it,
wanting for it to obliterate her,
just this time.
Finally
finally
finally.

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Lower East Side at midnight
his place
filled with lingering
wafts of 3 pm spliffs
and empty bottles
of cheap scotch,
I can never remember
the brand.
It made him feel like
James Bond
or Hemingway
when he drank it.
I didn’t want to
make him feel bad.
Bodega roses
of red and yellow
just for me,
in an old vase
on the kitchen table,
a patched crack
runs down the middle
of the glass.
I run my finger along it,
waiting for it
to pierce my skin,
but it never does.
He never takes his time
before his hands are
running up my legs
and under my skirt,
feeling his way inside,
before he lifts me
and sets me
on the table,
along side the flowers.
My eyes make contact
with their vibrant petals
as my pants
are pushed
to the side.
We have sex because
it’s what people
like us do.
My eyes close
and my mind wanders
to the painting of Ophelia
I saw at the
Tate Britain
a lifetime ago,
and the man who
wept
for her absence.
The bodega roses
come back into focus,
instead of his face.
We don’t make
eye contact
when he fucks me
anymore.
They are facing him,
even though I’m facing
them.
Because the truth is,
only one of us blooms for him.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 3.26.17

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I saw the
edge of the universe
that I had been seeking
since 1924
at the bottom
of an empty glass
at The London Pub
as the sirens of
Bloomsbury
wailed and
filled my ears,
my eyes connecting
with Virginia Woolf
as I wandered onto
the pavement
of Woburn Place,
but I lost her as I passed
the Tesco Express
across from
the Russell Square stop,
since she said
she’d buy the flowers herself,
as I disappeared
onto the Piccadilly Line,
and she dissolved
into the blooms
of Tavistock Square.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 3.26.17

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Like this:

Lower East Side at midnight
his place
filled with lingering
wafts of 3 pm spliffs
and empty bottles
of cheap scotch,
I can never remember
the brand.
It made him feel like
James Bond
or Hemingway
when he drank it.
I didn’t want to
make him feel bad.
Bodega roses
of red and yellow
just for me,
in an old vase
on the kitchen table,
a patched crack
runs down the middle
of the glass.
I run my finger along it,
waiting for it
to pierce my skin,
but it never does.
He never takes his time
before his hands are
running up my legs
and under my skirt,
feeling his way inside,
before he lifts me
and sets me
on the table,
along side the flowers.
My eyes make contact
with their vibrant petals
as my pants
are pushed
to the side.
We have sex because
it’s what people
like us do.
My eyes close
and my mind wanders
to the painting of Ophelia
I saw at the
Tate Britain
a lifetime ago,
and the man who
wept
for her absence.
The bodega roses
come back into focus,
instead of his face.
We don’t make
eye contact
when he fucks me
anymore.
They are facing him,
even though I’m facing
them.
Because the truth is,
only one of us blooms for him.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 3.26.17

Share this:

Like this:

It was all about
to end
as the sun
faded
to black
and the crack
inside the
galaxy
shattered
into eternity
and the moon
decided
to leave
and she swiftly took
the seas
to spite
our disappearing light
into the desert
we were led
and all our hope
was surely dead
but as the winds
were screaming
as the blue sky
turned to
red
the last lonesome
thought
to ever
enter my
weary head
was the memory
of you-

dipped in sunlight

stretched across

my king

size

bed

And long after
we all are dead
and into the end
we are led
I hope the Earth
remembers this:

Share this:

Like this:

There are those of us
who roam alone,
who search for fleeting
love,
or escapable intimacies,
who need to touch you
just one more time
or for the first time
because their fear
ate them alive
the last time,
who imagine love
like yellow flowers
and sunshine
in flowing summer fields,
but know that isn’t real
but a fantasy from a movie
or a song
or a poem
they came across
many lives ago,
probably in winter
when their heart was frozen
by the snow,
and they needed to believe
the warmth would come again,
who see themselves
amongst the stars,
floating in the blackness of
the deepest part of space,
until they shock themselves awake,
and realise their mind is actually
the darkest spot
in the universe,
and no matter what they wear to sleep,
the bed stays cold,
even in the summer heat.